


Welcome Home Sherlock

by little_whittles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:23:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_whittles/pseuds/little_whittles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is back, and John doesn't seem to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after The Fall of the Reichenbach, before S3 started.

Sherlock is exhausted. The trip from Austria, even with all of the expedience and luxury Mycroft could provide him, has taken far too long. Everything has; he had expected to be back much sooner. The three years it has taken is nearly two years longer than he had initially estimated. Moriarty had been good; very good.

His key still works in the lock of 221B Baker Street. In an instant he can tell Mrs. Hudson is away, most likely on holiday, visiting her sister. He thinks this is lucky, because telling two people on the same evening that you are, in fact, not dead, seems like such a chore.

Telling John is going to be bad enough, he assumes. He expects anger, sadness. He has readied himself for this moment, at least as best he could.

No one is in the flat when he pushes the door open, and he’s glad for it. It will give him more time to prepare, to try and see how it might play out. Most of his things are absent, though his desk and chair remain, no real reason to clean them out, he supposes. The skull is gone now, and his experiments. The flat doesn’t necessarily express John, but Sherlock knows he is nothing more than a ghost here.

He wonders for a moment if there’s a new flat mate, but no. No evidence of that. John must be working long hours at the hospital to make the rent, or Mrs. Hudson is accepting less. No, John wouldn’t allow that. Long hours explain why it’s past seven, already dark on the streets of London, and John’s not in.

Sherlock spots his violin case propped against the bookshelf, covered in dust. He picks it up and sits in his armchair. The instrument is still clean inside, protected, and he removes it along with his bow and begins tuning it.

The door opening a little more than an hour later almost startles him, but he keeps his composure, keeps his eyes fixed on the task at hand. He plucks a string, turns the peg, and plucks again.

John is standing stock still in the doorway when Sherlock finally looks up, but says nothing.

“What are you doing here?” John asks, but it’s casual, as if he just bumped into a mate at the market.

“I’ve returned,” Sherlock replies, plucking the string again.

“And where have you been?” Conversational, like asking about one’s holiday.

“All over the world,” Sherlock says, a bit excited to explain.

“Ah. Well, I have an early start tomorrow. Off to bed. Welcome back.” John turns and climbs the stairs to his room, the door shutting solidly behind him.

Sherlock sits, plucks the same string over and over, thinking. Not what he’d expected. Not what he’d expected at all. Could he have been wrong? Could John have known he wasn’t dead? Or maybe his impact in John’s life has been so little it’s hardly worth noticing? No, Sherlock thinks. He must have made an impact, he heard what John had said at his grave. It can’t be that John simply does not care that he’s finally - finally - returned.

He puts his violin aside on his desk and stands, feeling suddenly out of place. He crosses to his bedroom and pushes the door open gently, as if it’s a crime scene. The light is on with an easy flick of the switch.

It’s cold, colder than the rest of the flat. There’s more dust on his dresser, on the headboard. No one’s been in. The sheets lie in the same tangle they were in when last he slept there. The only difference are the boxes, stacked neatly, labeled, “Sherlock.” Packed away as a convenience? Kept for... sentiment?

He slips into bed without bothering to remove his clothes or shoes. The sheets smell musty and stale, but he pulls them up around him anyway. He tries to stay awake to catch John in the morning before he leaves for work, but the day catches up with him and he slides into a deep sleep.

~

When Sherlock wakes it’s nearing noon. He curses himself and jumps up quickly, even though he knows John is long gone. In the sitting room, John’s morning cuppa sits half empty and cold; there’s a newspaper folded in his chair.

Sherlock decides to shower, to scrub off the jetlag. Afterwards he opens his closet and all the clothes are still there, smelling like his sheets. He pulls out trousers and a shirt and, when he puts them on, they fit differently. A little large where he’s lost weight, a little tight where his muscles have grown stronger. They still fit, though, and after he’s dressed he goes about unpacking the boxes in his room. He doesn’t put any of his things in their shared space, though. Everything stays in his room, cluttered on the floor. He does take his laptop to his desk and pops it open.

He composes an e-mail to Lestrade:

_Lestrade -_

_I’m not dead. Back in London at 221B. Bored. Any cases, please contact._

_\- SH_

He feels only moderately guilty about telling Lestrade this way, but considering he’s only been slightly successful about telling John, this will have to do.

Sherlock spends the rest of his day sorting out his return to society with Mycroft, but he refuses to leave the flat to do it, forcing Mycroft to sigh dramatically into the phone but consent none the less. He also updates his website, scans the police blotters, even turns on crap telly to pass the time.

He expects John by five. When five comes and goes, he assumes it’s a long shift. When six does the same, he decides it’s pints with a colleague at the pub. Seven, eight, and nine are maddening, and he considers going to look for John, but doesn’t want to miss him if he returns.

Finally, not long after ten, the door flies open. The smell of alcohol drifts in, possibly only perceptible to Sherlock’s keen senses. John is drunk, as is his guest. A woman, about his age, possibly from the hospital, more likely from the pub.

“I didn’t know you had a flat mate,” she says, as if embarrassed.

“Yeah, neither did I,” John responds, and then giggles. She joins his laughter and leans into his chest with hers. Sherlock’s eyes narrow. John says nothing else but leads her by the hand up the stairs.

“Em, it was nice to meet you,” she tries, somewhat apologetically. Sherlock forces a smile. John’s door clicks shut a few moments later.

Sherlock is agitated. He considers playing the violin, or blasting bullet holes into something. Instead, he changes into pajamas and curls into bed. He feels like he’s been hit in the chest; sore, out of breath, even a little dizzy.

He can hear them. Hear the creak of the springs in John’s mattress, the headboard’s rhythmic thump against the wall. Her moans and gasps, John’s encouraging and panting words. It seems to go on and on, and Sherlock crushes his pillow over his ears.

He wakes before John to the sound of the door shutting, then heels going down the stairs. Leaving early, no goodbye. One night stand. Sherlock smirks. He hears John stir later, showering, having breakfast. He stays in his room until John has gone.

When he does emerge, he shuffles directly up to John’s room. He’s never been in John’s room before, no reason to be. The door is closed but not all the way, and Sherlock nudges it open. The sunlight is streaming in through large windows with the curtains drawn back. Things are clean and precise - military - except the unmade bed.

Sherlock sits there. Closes his eyes. He can smell John, smell that woman, smell _them_. He tips back onto John’s pillow and inhales again. Just John here, but still the faint smell of pheromones. He squeezes his eyes shut, cursing his body for betraying him.

It was never like this before he left. He never felt this longing, perhaps because what he longed for was so close. He never felt - 

He presses the flat of his palm against his erection through the thin cloth of his pajama bottoms and shudders. He inhales into John’s pillow again, twisting his neck to bury his face there, and pushed his hand below his waistline.

He tugs himself quickly, efficiently, and cries out when he comes only a few minutes later. He’s sticky and wet and flushed up to his ears. He hates this; hates feeling this way, hates his simple human urges, hates his inability to stifle them any longer.

Sherlock showers and puts on a new set of pajamas, pulls his robe tightly around him. He sits in his chair, facing the door, and waits.

John is home sooner this night, but it’s still dark when he enters the flat, a bag or groceries in his hand. He glances at Sherlock, then goes to the kitchen to put things away.

“Is your plan to just pretend I’m not here?” Sherlock asks, keeping his voice even.

John pops his head out of the kitchen. “Well, yes. See, I thought you were dead, so my plan was to go on living like you weren’t here, because you WEREN’T.” 

“You’re angry,” Sherlock observes with some wonder and relish. Finally, an emotional response.

“Of course I’m angry!” John explodes, storming into the sitting room. “You can’t DO things like that to people, Sherlock! Do you even know... three years, it’s been all I could do to keep going through the motions, to have any life at all. Let alone a normal one.”

“Normal lives are dull.”

“Three years, Sherlock! And I’ve been doing really well! Not the wreck everyone thought I’d be, not weeping at all hours like some widow. I have friends, a job, a LIFE!”

Sherlock tries to hide his disappointment. “I’ve underestimated you.”

“Yeah you have. But don’t think you didn’t still... that the last three years haven’t-”

“Do you think they’ve been easy for me, John?” Sherlock interrupts. Anger. Unexpected.

“Wh-what? You’re the one who-”

“Do you think it’s what I wanted? I HAD to, John. To keep you safe! You, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. You were all in danger, it was the only way. That was the end of the game, I had to die. Or appear to die.”

“Why three years, Sherlock?” John asks, his despair obvious now. Sherlock wants the anger back, he can deal with that more efficiently.

“I had to destroy his network, it was the only way to know you’d be safe, to clear my name.”

“And you couldn’t tell me?” Betrayal.

“I couldn’t risk it. John, I WANTED to, but I couldn’t...”

“Couldn’t trust me?” Angry again. Good. Very good.

“I couldn’t trust anyone. But Molly. She-”

John is there in a heartbeat, grabbing Sherlock by his shirt front and shaking him. “Molly knew?!”

“She - she helped me. I needed her-”

Sherlock is cut off by John’s fist smashing into his cheek. His head twists to the side and pain radiates. 

“The death report, the - I didn’t want to involve anyone, but there was no other way-” John’s right hand comes forward again and Sherlock flinches, but doesn’t try to dodge another hit. Instead, John’s hands are in his shirt again and he’s lifting Sherlock half out of the chair.

Sherlock’s confusion is only reinforced when John crushes his lips violently on Sherlock’s mouth, making a desperate cry in his throat. Sherlock grabs the back of John’s jackets and pulls himself in, biting into the kiss and forcing his tongue into John’s mouth.

John drops him back into the chair but follows, not breaking apart their mouths, and straddles Sherlock’s thighs.

“What-” Sherlock manages breathlessly, but John interrupts.

“No, just. Shut the fuck up, you sodding wanker.” He’s still angry, passionately so, and Sherlock wonders if this is the moment when crimes of passion happen. The thought is brief, because John is rolling his hips and grinding himself into Sherlock’s erection.

Sherlock moans and grabs John by the hips, pressing him down, pulling him forward so he can rub against Sherlock’s stomach. His brain is screaming at him to make sense of this before it gets out of hand, but he lets that thought be overrun by John’s fingers creeping up his ribs, John’s hot breath on his neck, his teeth, his-

“I want to fuck you,” John growls into his ear. Sherlock involuntarily bucks into him. This thought had never crossed his mind. Every thought he’d allowed himself to have about this was half-formed, he never thought it might happen. But apparently his libido likes this thought, because he’s so hard and his cock is leaking against the cotton of his pants.

“Will you let me?” John asks, a little unsure. Sherlock nods, his lips swollen and his brain foggy and John quirks his mouth. “You look absolutely debauched.”

“You... you...” Sherlock tries, but he has no idea what to say, so he kisses John again instead. John groans and Sherlock’s patience is wearing thin. “Please... can we - I need-” He hears the frustration in his own voice, childish, on edge.

John moves off of him and Sherlock feels cold immediately. John grabs his wrist and yanks him, hard - the anger is still there - and pulls him past Sherlock’s door and up the stairs. Sherlock wonders why, why not his room, it’s closer? He stumbles on the stairs with the speed that John is leading him, but regains his footing and catches up.

John’s teeth crack against his with the force of his kiss and he shoves Sherlock onto the bed, straddles him, pins his legs. He snatches up his wrists, too, and holds them to the bed above his head. John’s kisses are maddening and slow but forceful. Sherlock pushes up but there’s no friction and John chuckles.

“Not going to get your way all the time.” He nips Sherlock's earlobe and takes both of Sherlock’s wrists in one hand so he can use the other to ruck Sherlock’s shirt up to his armpits. He kisses and bites his way down Sherlock’s torso and bends to breathe hot air against his cock.

Sherlock moans and the sound surprises him as well as John, who mimics him. He lets go of Sherlock’s wrists and moves lower, tugging the pajama bottoms off.

“Take your clothes off,” John says.

“Please?” Sherlock responds indignantly.

“That’s an order,” John counters, only a little humor behind it, most of it pure authority. Sherlock sheds his robe and tugs off his t-shirt. He sits naked in front of John and realizes it’s the second time since they’ve known each other that he’s been embarrassed. The first was the day John came to look at the flat had unknowingly commented on Sherlock’s mess.

“You are... you’re here,” John quietly comments. His fingers are working his own buttons from his shirt and Sherlock slips forward to get his fly open. John steps out of his shoes and lets Sherlock drag his jeans and pants off, pulling his socks along with them. He tosses his shirt to the floor and crawls onto the bed, over Sherlock. He reaches, opening his night stand and pulling out lubricant and a condom. That’s why John’s room, Sherlock thinks.

“I’m clean,” Sherlock says defensively. He’s never slept with anyone, they both know that. But John doesn’t know he’s been off the drugs since Baskerville.

“I... may not be,” John admits, blushing. Sherlock is hurt, he can’t deny it, but he understands. John was lonely. Sherlock wasn’t THERE.

“Okay. Until we know for sure,” Sherlock agrees. John’s blush lifts but he still looks uneasy. Sherlock kisses him again, hooking his legs behind John’s knees. John moans and he’s back in the moment, crushing his cock against Sherlock’s.

He pulls away and opens the bottle, rubbing liquid over his fingers. 

“Is that necessary?” Sherlock asks impatiently.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” John states strongly. He’s not going to budge on this, Sherlock knows. He kneels between Sherlock’s spread thighs, nudging him until he curls his spine, gives John access. “Ready?”

“Of course,” Sherlock complains, but there’s a waver in his voice.

John’s hand is steady as it moves, stroking Sherlock’s prick before dropping lower. He slides one finger gently over Sherlock and it makes Sherlock shiver. It feels so intimate, and frightening, and amazing. John continues this for a while, too long, Sherlock thinks. He rocks down toward John’s finger and John laughs.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Sherlock. Sherlock sighs, and John slowly, so so slowly, pushes one finger inside, just a bit. Sherlock’s eyes open wide and he holds his breath, adjusting, relaxing. “Okay?”

Sherlock nods, pulls his knees higher to urge John. John reads this and pushes deeper, slowly, until he’s to his knuckles. He waits again before he starts slowly out, then in, in shallow pushes.

The discomfort is noticeable but tolerable, and once he relaxes, Sherlock lets himself feel the friction, the twist, and then John strokes his prostate and he gasps.

“There?” John asks, not unsure but confirming. Sherlock nods rapidly, reaching a hand down to squeeze his dick. “Fuck,” John curses, his cock jumping in response. He pushes another finger in quickly and Sherlock cries out. John doesn’t ask this time if it’s okay, doesn’t go slow, just opens him up wider.

Sherlock is covered in sweat and pushing against John’s hand, still holding his erection, pre-cum slipping out of the slit. John hisses and shakes his head. “I want you now,” he tells Sherlock. Sherlock smirks and John pulls away abruptly. It’s worse than being pushed into and Sherlock chokes out a sob. He watches John roll on the condom, slick his thick cock, and then he crawls forward on his knees, pushing the head against Sherlock’s opening.

“Tell me if-”

“Just do it,” Sherlock demands.

John pushes in and it hurts. No, it doesn’t hurt, it’s uncomfortable, but only for a second. John starts a rhythm, the same one Sherlock heard when he was with that woman. John’s rhythm. Something in Sherlock feels warm, feels needed. John did miss him.

John hitches Sherlock’s hips higher, rests Sherlock’s calves against his shoulders, and pushes deeper. Sherlock shudders, “There, yes there, John.”

John moans loudly, his eyelids fluttering. “You are... I’ve wanted you for so long.” His fingers dig into Sherlock’s hips, pulling him toward his thrusts. “God, I can’t... you’re too tight, it’s too much-”

Sherlock grips his own cock and strokes, his mouth falling slack, but his eyes locked on John. It only takes a few flicks of his wrist and he’s coming, streaking his chest.

“Fuck,” John groans. “Fuck, I’m gonna... I need-”

“Come on, John. My John,” Sherlock urges, trying to lift his hips higher, get John deeper.

“Oh fuck, Sherl...” John gasps. Sherlock smiles, remembering how John would say his name like that when he’d done something amazing, brilliant, incredible. At least something John thought was one of those things.

The tension slips from both of them and John pulls out slowly, to minimize Sherlock’s discomfort. He tosses the condom in the bin and falls beside Sherlock. They’re both panting openly.

“Tell me you missed me,” Sherlock demands, aggressively, not emotionally.

“What? Are you joking?”

“You didn’t?” Confusion.

“Of course I did, you stupid prat. I missed you every day.” John presses a firm kiss to Sherlock’s temple.

“It killed me not seeing you,” Sherlock yawns.

“That’s over now. But you still have a lot of explaining to do,” John says.

Sherlock grins. His phone chimes from his robe pocket and he sits up, paws it off the floor.

“Lestrade.”

“Did you tell him?” John asks.

“Yes. E-mail.”

John sighs and rolls his eyes. “And?”

“He’s confused. Not too pleased. But-”

“But?”

“Abandoned car, loads of blood. No body.”

John frowns. “Are you going now? At this hour? After...” he gestures between them.

“No. WE’RE going.” Sherlock hops off the bed. “Get your things, my dear Watson. It’s on!”

John can’t say no to the thrill in Sherlock’s voice and he grins lazily, standing. “Shower first?”

“No time,” Sherlock explains, starting for the door, stark naked.

“But we smell like a bath house, they might figure out-”

“Sod them. Besides, it’d be the first thing they’ve figured out on their own in years!” Sherlock smiles wickedly and bounds down the stairs to dress. 

John laughs and says to himself, “Welcome home, Sherlock.”


End file.
